Dialectical Extremis I


She had the ass of an angel and I am the prophet
Who will kiss it properly and prophesy about it—
One day she will be the perfect true mother
Of a new race on a new planet, buildings made of red stone,
Insect-like secretaries come out of the woodwork,
She will be in love with a shadow on the ceiling and the light,
The poet in the backroom making love to the Hasidic girl
Is happy to have cigarettes and paper to write his poems,
A bag of weed and rolling paper and he sees heaven
In her fat white ass—
But night comes and dawn follows,
He wants the drunk one but he doesn’t know what for
The words come like milk spitting past his lips,
He’s still thinking about Caitlin and her blonde mother—
Taking out the measuring tape and measuring the room,
Making it flat like a Cubist but spinning like Futurism—
Bettie should see what the world has become,
She would dream of hard men and angels like Mishima—
She’d probably write music about it,
Every grain of sand is an atom bomb
Every work of art is an atom, every pink heart in her chest,
Every blue vein on her mother’s size 12 feet—
I am the prophet who will crawl up the crevice of her sphincter
Taking big whiffs of the natural methane produced therein
And give forth prophecies and poems in an alien hand—
The prophet riding in on silver Pegasus,
The gift arriving unannounced,
Aphrodite’s virginity at the beginning of the universe
Gives birth to countless worlds on each a prophet stands
On a high mountain calling out to the black sky
For his mother to return but all he gets is a Jewess prophetess
To end of his loneliness for days on end until the end of time—
Megan is a prophetess and doesn’t know it—
Structure collapsing into an Israeli Paradise—
The blank field opens up into a canyon
That opens onto a valley through which a fertile river runs
That feeds the grasslands between her thighs—
I am the prophet that tends the sheep there,
She is the girl who will kiss me tonight—
She farts in the dark enabling me to find her—
I take a big whiff of her magic and start to pray,
The heavy metal gods return dressed hipper than the last batch—
A girl in a headscarf brings milk but there are no children
So I have to drink it myself with rum and smoke—
She sold her soul to the city of Sodom,
Where dialectical extremis isn’t as rare as the dirty blonde’s shadow, everybody loves a girl with dead eyes
Whenever I see a picture of Ann Frank
It’s like I can smell her corpse—
What kind of poets are we?
Decadent or romantic with love in my lap—
Writing an ode to her big ass,
Talking mother into taking her clothes off—
Dialectical Extremis was your future,
But now is the past where man is man
And she sells her soul to the Sodomites
For no good reason she can think of—
A redhead in the Warsaw back alley
Makes all the priests cry and Korea is older than time—
And the fat girl sings but it sounds like more of a whine,
She’s hungry as a cat but she’s still grotesquely fat,
Some guys think that’s hot, but Sodomites know it’s not
How can you write about Japan without mentioning the sea
Where mermaids and monsters come from—
Science is a heartless whore I walk with at night,
And talk to until the sun comes up—
Paul Verlaine and Walt Whitman danced in the dark,
Bourgeois poets fighting in the streets of the Lower East Side
Challenging the memories of the ghetto
In the minds of Upper East Side JAPS—
Gays commit suicide at all times of the years
The God particle and the God Gene combine
In the city of Sodom into love for the President—
She climbs the steps to love in silence to get mouth fucked—
By universal psychological reality
Her silver palette and golden tongue—
Lick the ice from my shame,
She sold her soul to Sodom to sing sweet melodies
Am I a Symbolist or a Modernist or an Imagist or just rich?
She’s so short I can flip her upside down
And lick her twat like an ice cream cone,
Naturalism shatters idols
And documentaries bring them back to life—
Rachel’s childhood memories of whores
In red stockings and Kohl eyes
Fucking corpses in the forest like ancient Bacchante
Or the gopis of Krishna’s simple, direct and terse musical phrasing, India remaining the rape capital of the world—
The past and future of every new sensation in Sodom,
The absurd symbols of the prince of poets
She sold her soul in Warsaw
And escaped the Dialectical Extremis of the Third Reich,
Coming to America where she married a black man
And dyed her hair blonde from its natural red
And became a stripper known for her long, svelte legs—
What kind of poet am I?
She knows the Chinese are willing
To import any kind of pornography
As long as it’s not political, they’re especially fond of scat—
They think of it as art, painters rally to the call,
Confusing the poets with their endless tributes
To Blake Lively who they see as a prophet, seer and voyeur—
I know it’s time to feed the cats
But I’m going out for cigarettes instead,
I’ll feed them when I get back,
Mother symbolically waiting in the dark,
She knows why but I have to find out her unwanted miracle,
A repulsive little toad with skin
Like rice paper does my laundry,
Your mother in the moonlight, hands tied and skull bashed in
Comes to me in a dream of a divided self symbolically—
Hands like Baudelaire with a vision
Of sea and stars, the painters living in the woods
Like Russian gypsies with fat girls on their knees
Outside the last log cabin standing
Mother jumps in the lake and drowns, cute in high heels
Drinking wine down at the club while the moonlight shines
She’s got a Method Actor’s soul
And mother removes her mask
Revealing the tears in her eyes, I think a painting of the twins
Would be the perfect thing to hang on the wall over the fireplace
He sits in the garage teaching himself how to play guitar—
She sits on the phone dreaming of stars—choose one—
I don’t know why I dreamed of the girl with the smashed in rat face, then again I think I do know,
Mother’s drunk again and taking off her clothes
Making abstract shapes in the dark,
Open form atomic structures,
Mapping the willing star charts of Chinese pornography
Your mother facedown in the basement
Handcuffed behind her back—
Everyone loves Russian hookers, more the idea than the fact,
Prostitutes were sacred in the ancient world
Now it’s just your mother in the Indian moonlight
Of Bollywood Realism and Impressionism
Of unknown chaos—the noise from outside
Pointlessly Republican, democrats with handguns
Defending children, Russian, Chinese, Korean and Guatemalan—
Blake, Whitman and Baudelaire were not Existentialists
In the formal way, not like the Communist propaganda of the past,
Pornographic Social Realism shows your mother
Like Saint Sebastian in the moonlight—
Mother was an Israeli soldier,
There are too many mothers living in the occupied territories,
Her soul wandering the battlefield—
Sighing because she’s weary,
The Japanese making too much noise,
Waking up all of China
Someone needs to rape that child in the mouth—
She’s as repulsive as a scandal and pregnant,
X-ray photos of distant stars—
She’s so stupid to be so popular,
More bastards coming into the world—
The giant vagina opens and swallows the universe
Light a candle for the pregnant lesbian bride,
Reading a good book by candlelight,
A great novel written by a blind man,
Abstract, Expressionist, Conceptual and Minimalist—
Doing lines on the private plane
Praying naked to random gods is forbidden—
Liking to be choked during sex,
Chained to the bed during a tsunami—
Eternal love is not real love and truth is not beauty—
Mother was an Israeli—
Father was a Palestinian, brother and sister not related—
Perfection is not an abstraction,
God kissing the Italian beauty queen on her pretty pussy—
The end of the world coming too soon,
We all know a nasty brunette,
Pregnant and still hungry for cock,
Facedown in the muddy basement,
Her blonde sister dancing naked upstairs
For strange British men—
I remember the stars and the smell of your grandmother’s feet—
I’ll never forget them until tomorrow when we meet again,
And as I lovingly wipe the spit from your jaw
I set my Barbie on fire to forget you—
I think of you at moments like this
When I’m counting the dead stars
Choking on my own vomit
After being forced to drink diarrhea—
From your mother’s whipped ass
There can only come true gold—
How she keeps her slutty pussy so tight is a mystery—
Yes, she’s a beautifully infinite cock-sucking whore,
Yes, she is an Israeli
And yet there are too many mothers walking among the minefields
The world waiting to explode from too much cock—

Taylor_Momsen_doggystyle_nice_arse Taylor_Momsen_hot_bending_over Taylor_Momsen_spread_legs_upskirt


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